


8.02: The Shadow of Desire

by idlesuperstar



Series: The Crooked Roads [12]
Category: Spooks | MI-5
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:53:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27496747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idlesuperstar/pseuds/idlesuperstar
Summary: It’s quite refreshing to be dealing with a catastrophe that won’t lead to genocide, or nuclear annihilation.
Relationships: (past/ambiguous/implied), Lucas North/Oleg Darsharvin, Sarah Caulfield/Lucas North
Series: The Crooked Roads [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/136827
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	8.02: The Shadow of Desire

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sidelong look at ep 8:02 from Lucas' brainpan. If you've not seen the ep then it won't make much sense. Go and watch that instead. 
> 
> Title from William Blake's [The Marriage of Heaven and Hell.](https://www.bartleby.com/235/253.html)
> 
> _Those who restrain Desire, do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained; and the restrainer or Reason usurps its place and governs the unwilling._  
>  And being restrained, it by degrees becomes passive, till it is only the shadow of Desire.  
> Intertitles are Proverbs of Hell from the same. 
> 
> Series notes are [here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/136827).

_November 2008, one year previously._

_“There are other effects this can have on you, Lucas, as well as the major ones we’ve previously discussed like insomnia, night terrors, panic attacks.”_

_The therapy room is inoffensively bland, all pastels and pale abstract paintings. Doctor Williams’ (“Call me Rachel”) voice is calm, level, friendly, as ever. Lucas sits, mute, as she tags neat labels onto his past eight years._

_“They’re less dramatic, but I want you to know that they’re perfectly normal reactions, and that there’s nothing wrong in whatever happens to you. It’s very common to also experience depression, disordered eating, loss of libido.”_

_She smiles gently as she says ‘loss of libido’. He supposes it’s meant to be supportive, but it just feels like pity. He doesn’t need pity. And she doesn’t need to know anything about his libido._

_“There are things we can do to help you, CBT, even medication if we feel you need it, although CBT can be very helpful in rewiring things, behaviours, undoing habits, even for victims of torture.”_

_Lucas grits his teeth mutinously at ‘victims of torture’, holds his tongue; knows that the apparent complicity of silence is his best way to get signed off and back at work as soon as possible._

_He wonders what she’d think if he said “You think you can rewire me now, after this? After what he did?”_

_Wonders even further what her face would show if he said “There’s a part of me that doesn’t want rewiring, doesn’t want straightening out. I know that’s fucked up and I know it’s bad but - “_

_He’ll never say it aloud, of course. He can’t say it aloud to himself, even._

* * *

November 2009, present day.

There’ve been loads of ‘Best of the Decade’ lists in magazines and papers recently, and instead of getting pissed off about his lost years (he’s taken to calling them ‘My Lost Years’ in ironic quotation marks) he’s browsed through them, looking for stuff he’s missed, and spent some back pay in the dvd section of HMV. Now he has a comfortable sofa and a decent telly, he’s carving out time for himself at the end of a work day to watch things. 

Which is how he’s ended up wanking in the shower for the fourth morning running to thoughts of Sam from _Life on Mars._ Sometimes it’s been Annie, sometimes Sam _and_ Annie, they’ve both got great arses, after all. Occasionally it’s a wonderfully messy mix of himself and Sam and Gene, rougher than when he fantasises about Annie. Those corduroy trousers of Sam’s - he’s finally realising that maybe his boyhood obsession with _The Professionals_ was less about wanting to fight terrorists and more about Bodie’s thighs. Or maybe a combination of both. He wonders if Lewis Collins still has a fan club. He could write and say _Dear Mr Collins, you inspired me to join MI5, also I think you might have been my sexual awakening. You and Debbie Harry. Thanks._

He’s laughing as he comes over his hand, Sam and Bodie in his head, cocky as fuck, grinning irrepressibly. 

He grudgingly admits that the therapist wasn’t completely wrong, when she talked about his libido. It feels like someone flipped a switch when he was in Brighton, and he’s fifteen again, lusting after pop stars, actors, classmates.

* * *

When he’d got the internal memo about Malcolm’s replacement transferring in from Section B, he’d havered for an hour or two thinking about emailing Jimmy Talbot in B for some inside info. 

He trusts Jimmy’s judgement, spent a few field ops with him, way back. They’d bonded over many things; being northern transplants, football, age, sarcasm, but mostly over music. Been out for pints, to gigs, when favourite bands had played.

He’s hesitant, though. He’s not spoken to Jimmy since he came back. Like most old colleagues, he’s walled them off. Walled himself off, away from sympathy, pity. 

He should have known. Five minutes after sending an email, Jimmy’s on the phone.

“Finally got yer head out your arse then, Lucas?”

“Yeah, alright,” Lucas says, reddening, glad Jimmy can’t see his face.

And then it’s just like the last nine years never happened. 

And Lucas should have known, should have given Jimmy, given everyone, more credit. Jimmy’s had his fair share of shit from the service. He’s not in B for the kicks, after all. 

He shakes off his self-recrimination. Thinks - at least I’m here now, doing it. 

“Shit, man, you missed some good gigs,” Jimmy’s saying, like Lubyanka was just time away, not something to be ashamed of. “You too old for that now? ‘Cause there’s a right good line up at the Apollo the next few months.”

Lucas laughs, thinks about plastic pint glasses and too-loud speakers and close-pressed bodies, about the heart juddering thump of the bass, the heart lifting sound of guitars, and says, “I’m in your hands, Jim. Get me a ticket, yeah? For the next gig you think I’d be into.”

It’s ten minutes of music talk, and then Jimmy has to go; just time for him to drop in “Tariq’s a good lad, bit too clever for his own good, like, bit too James Bond with all his gadgets, but, yeah, he’s a good lad. He’s been wasted in B. He’s fucking young, though, mate, makes me feel like me grandad. Christ, Lucas, were we really that young once?” 

* * *

“What is _that,_ ” Ros says, in a voice like a sucked lemon. Clearly all went swimmingly with the Home Sec.

“Malcolm’s replacement,” Lucas replies, stifling a smile. 

“Tell him to lose the t-shirt,” she says, not breaking her stride, “we’re not the bloody NME awards.”

Lucas can’t wait until Ros meets Tariq properly. He’s not sure Tariq’s been trained for that much danger.

Jimmy was right, he _is_ fucking young, although the t-shirt’s not helping with that. What Jimmy didn’t say - wouldn’t think to notice - is that he’s _cute_ as well.

Lucas schools his face into seriousness and heads into the briefing room, swept along in Ros’ wake. 

~

It’s quite refreshing to be dealing with a catastrophe that won’t lead to genocide, or nuclear annihilation. Gas shortages. It’s a bit 1970s. What’s next? Power cuts, the three day week? Watching _Life on Mars_ has been accidental preparation. 

There’s always a rogue element, though, or it wouldn’t be in their laps. That the rogue element is not just a key part of the deal to be made, but also a murderous Tazbek with a vendetta is just enough of a pain in the arse that they’ve been landed with it. 

Keeping psychopaths sweet until the politicians can shake hands is not exactly what he signed up for, but if someone’s got to do it, it may as well be them. 

~

In the spirit of keeping people sweet, Lucas shrugs on his diplomatic demeanour, and meets Sarah Caulfield for lunch. 

“I’m glad you’re not holding a grudge,” he says, with every appearance of quiet humility. She wants to believe she’s calling the shots, and he’s fine with letting her think that, if it helps her save face. 

It’s not hard to slip into the role. 

Turns out, she’s not just after his engaging company, or an apology. Unsurprisingly, the CIA know about the Tazbek delegation. 

And they’re not happy.

“We don’t like their regime, or their human rights record.”

“Wow,” Lucas says, before he can stop himself, “a lecture from the Americans about ethical trade policy.”

So much for diplomacy and humility. 

Ah well, maybe next time.

* * * 

_A fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees_

“Just because you’re paranoid…” Ros says, wryly, as they’re listening in to the internet cafe from the surveillance van. This guy Bibi is meeting - he’d probably cream himself in delight if he knew MI5 actually _were_ spying on him. 

Unexpectedly, he seems to have excellent intel. _God save us all_ , thinks Lucas, as they head out to tail their marks, _from fucking journalists with their ideals_ _still intact._

Lucas is right - the look on Plowden’s face when he realises he’s been bugged is priceless. Like all his Christmases came at once, but he’s no longer sure he wants the presents. 

“Watch out for snipers,” Lucas grins, as he follows him across to a park bench. 

The worst thing about Plowden and his bleeding heart is that he’s not wrong. It’s _The Doctor’s Dilemma_ for the 21st century. They _are_ choosing between privileged and not. Lucas can’t afford to debate the morals of the issue with him, though. No matter how dirty he feels justifying their stance. 

“Luckily,” he says, calculatedly offhand, “my job description means I only have to worry about British deaths, Mr Plowden.”

He watches Plowden walking away, knowing in his bones he’s not convinced him to lie low. He wishes he could make him do their job for a day, a week. See how noble you’d be then, Plowden. 

  
  


* * *

It comes to something when Ros is even more uncertain than he is. Ros with her unshakeable sense of duty, and morality - she’s the most pragmatic person he knows, which is saying something given the company he keeps. They all know this stinks, giving a murderous rapist freedom to roam so Britain doesn’t go dark. 

It’s the first time he’s heard her openly speak out against Harry’s decision though. Maybe she’s right, maybe Harry is more thrown by this whole Ruth situation than he lets on. 

Maybe - Lucas tries to unthink the thought - Harry has _feelings_ for Ruth.

~

He was right about Plowden. He’s not shutting up. And now there’s questions in parliament, and Lucas needs to find out where he’s getting this intel from. 

“I’ve got that internet caff on a permanent pick up now,” Tariq says. Lucas hasn’t mentioned the t-shirt yet. He’s kind of waiting to see what Ros says next time she sees it. It’s been too quiet around here recently.

“Why _does_ he log in there?” Jo asks.

“Makes him feel all Woodward and Bernstein, probably,” Tariq says, much to Lucas’ silent delight. 

~

Harry is even more bullish than usual. Lucas tries not to think about Harry’s romantic life, concentrates instead on their next move.

“Bugging their hotel isn’t an option, but we’re looking into other possibilities,” he says, in the face of Harry’s determination to cover all their surveillance bases.

“Strip joints, basically,” cuts in Ros, “taking one for the team there, Lucas.”

Is this what having an older sister is like, Lucas thinks, pulling a face back at her. 

~

There must be, he thinks, _somewhere_ in the world, a strip club that plays decent music, and doesn’t tick _all_ the cliche boxes. 

Luckily for him, he doesn’t have to worry about eavesdropping, or hanging around for too long. He’s just scoping the place for options. And giving Tariq a chance to show off some gadgets. 

It does feel a bit Bond, having a camera-hidden-in-a-watch. He makes a mental note to tell Jimmy about that one. Although Jimmy would probably be more envious of the strip joint part of the op.

~

“Thumper’s the one who’s playing dirty,” says Ros, as they review the video footage, “he’s the one who thinks because we need his gas he can do what he likes.”

“Well up to a point he’s right,” says Harry, like they’ve not just discovered that the failed hit on Bibi was Thumper’s doing. Are they _really_ going to sanction a terrorist hit on British soil, for the sake of gas? 

He’s done worse things, of course. He’s sure Harry has done far _far_ worse, in his time. And it’s November, after all. People will die in their hundreds without heating. Without power.

~

Tariq has been running _lip reading software_ on the video from the strip club. Jimmy was definitely right about him being wasted in Section B. He feels momentarily disloyal to Malcolm, but things move forward, after all.

Just not fast enough. 

“Lucas. You’re too late,” Tariq says over the comms, over the sound of his own thudding feet, his own breath.

He looks at the neat, bloody hole in the back of Plowden’s jacket, and wonders what he felt, at the end. Fear? Undoubtedly. Vindication? Maybe. Cold comfort, for those few seconds left to him. Lucas turns away jerkily, fists his hands in his pockets to stop him punching something. 

He should have pushed harder. Should have shut him up better. Should have hauled him away to a safe house until the whole thing was over. 

The rational part of him knows Plowden brought it all on himself. Knew what he was up against, and still stood up and shouted. He painted the target on his own back.

It doesn’t help much. 

* * *

Jo is holding nothing back. She’s always been the most idealistic of them. Lucas admires her for keeping her faith so long.

“The Tazbeks have started to stall at the talks,” Harry says, “we need their gas, we do _not_ need more obstacles.”

Lucas, mutinous, says, “are you saying that Bibi is a price worth paying? That we should just look the other way?”

Ros has a face like thunder, as Harry washes his hands of the details and walks away from them.

Whatever Lucas has felt, has thought, about Harry, all these years, he’s always respected him. But _this_ \- 

Ros was right. Harry is off-balance, and his feet of clay are showing. 

It’s going to be up to them.

~

Lucas is momentarily distracted by the acid yellow of Tariq’s t-shirt. Maybe it’s time to give him a heads up, now tempers are fraying. The cleaners wouldn’t like blood on the carpet. When he focuses on what Tariq’s saying, though, suddenly everything falls into place.

Plowden’s source is in Grosvenor Square. What a complete not-surprise that is.

Looks like he’s going to have to try and be diplomatic again.

* * *

“Why did you do it?” he asks her.

“Because you needed a lesson for double-crossing me.”

 _Oh, fuck diplomacy,_ Lucas thinks, hackles raised.

“You stay _out of this,”_ he growls, “if you interfere again - ”

“You’ll do such things, _what they are yet I know not, but they shall be the terrors of the earth?”_ she says, eyes dancing.

Well. That surprises him. Not that she’s taunting him, he’s come to expect that. That she’s needling him via Shakespeare.

He turns his back on her, and walks away. There’s no knowing what he’d say if he stayed. And there’s no room in this day for a diplomatic incident with the Cousins.

Their encounter lingers in his head, though, as he makes his way back to Thames House. 

  
  


* * *

Next morning, after mixing up his shower routine by thinking about Joan from _Mad Men_ , Lucas feels ready for a fresh take on the case. When he gets to the grid, it seems Ros and Jo are of the same mind. Mutinous thoughts averted, they split up to do what they can to get Harry what he wants.

~

_Prisons are built with stones of Law, brothels with bricks of Religion_

Tariq’s made him a bug in a matchbook. He really does feel a bit James Bond today. He hopes Ros and Tariq, back at the grid, can hear Thumper’s conversation over the shitty music. 

He concentrates on looking relaxed, on looking like a man with a drink and a hard-on and nowhere he’d rather be.

Although when the hostess mistakenly picks up his matchbook, he moves far faster than a man with a hard-on would. He tweaks a smile onto his face, slips effortlessly into Russian as he lights her cigarette. Her Russian has an accent, she’s probably from one of the former Soviet countries. He’s laying on the charm, but if she realises, she doesn’t show it. She’s probably grateful he’s not groping her with sweaty hands.

He sits back down, heart clattering, calming his breathing. He’s just settling down when Ros says urgently in his ear, “Lucas, duck out of there _fast_.” 

Luck is with him, as the hostess comes by again. He swings up into her orbit, smiling, takes her elbow. Leans into her, kisses her lightly. Her smile is convincingly genuine. 

If he plays this right, he can win a little more time, let Ros and Tariq get as much intel as possible.

He sits down with her, leans in close. She smells good, dark and smooth, her voice soft, low, knowing; Lucas knows it’s all professional, but it doesn’t stop a slow arousal curling through his belly. She smells _really_ good. 

She’s leaning into his space, talking low. His cock twitches. He could just reach out, cup the curve of her waist, feel the warm, live skin. She’s wearing barely anything. 

Christ, he really _does_ need to get laid. 

For a brief moment, as he stands up and lets her lead him by the hand, he imagines doing this for real, buying an hour of her time. Imagines Harry reading his expenses claim. It’s very tempting, for the effect, as much as the sex.

Instead, once they’re safely out of the main bar, he kisses her lightly again, somewhat regretfully. Folds some notes into her hand, and tells her, with a wry smile, to beware of strange men. 

He steps out into the daylight, grinning, and makes his way back to real life.

* * *

Harry, unexpectedly, also appears to have made a fresh start when it comes to Thumper.

“I underestimated him. And I made the wrong call on Bibi Saparova.”

Lucas will say this for him, he’s gracious in his humility. 

“We take him out,” Harry says, as if he’s ordering coffee. Lucas blinks, looks at him. Even Ros is slightly startled.

Jo, however, is ahead of them all. 

It’s fucking risky, and Lucas doesn’t like getting civilians involved in their mess. 

But it’s also brilliant. 

~

Lucas never likes being the one waiting outside while the op happens. He’s much better doing. But he’s got to trust Jo and Bibi, and for what it is, it’s a fairly safe job. Safe enough for Tariq to masquerade as hotel staff. 

He’s trying not to pace in the hotel lobby, he knows it looks suspicious. Ros is much better at appearing calm. 

“Shots fired, Alpha One,” Ros says, conversationally over the comms. “Send in the clowns.”

And then, as he’s watching outside as the armed response team pile in, “More shooting in the room, Alpha One. Something’s wrong.”

~

They should have known, really. The human factor. The unpredictability of real people. 

He looks at Jo, at her ravaged face, and thinks that eventually she will learn to not show it, anymore. She’ll still feel it, but she will form a carapace, wear a mask, deflect with sarcasm or black humour.

It’s not healthy, they all know that. But it’s necessary, in the end. 

~

The talks are safe, the deal will be made, and what’s more, a vicious psychopath has been wiped out. Hundreds, maybe thousands of lives have been saved, both here and in Tazbek.

In the grand scheme of things, two people being collateral damage is a fair price to pay. That’s the logic. 

It never feels like that, though. 

And if - _when_ \- it _does_ feel like that, well then, it’s too late. 

Lucas hopes he has the strength to stop before that happens. 

* * *

And then it turns out that the deal won’t be made, after all. Harry comes back from the talks more resigned than raging. It’s galling to have been played by the Russians on this one. 

“We’ll have to get the Americans to go to the Russians on our behalf,” Ros says, which is the least appealing thing they’ve all heard this week. 

Lucas sighs internally. He can see what he’s going to have to do next. He pulls out his phone and dials. 

~

To his surprise, Sarah has brought the big guns with her, in the shape of her boss, Samuel Walker. He wonders if he’s back up, or a referee. 

It’s good news, though. The Russians agree to the deal. 

“As always, with the Russians,” Samuel says, genially, “the devil’s in the detail.”

Lucas stops his internal celebration, and looks at him. It’s all painfully clear, now.

They’ve just been the pawns in the chess game the Russians and Americans have been playing. Five did the dirty work, took all the risks, all the while thinking they were pulling their own strings. What a joke. 

He bites down his anger. He knows this is one he can’t win. And he doesn’t want Plowden and Bibi to have been for nothing. 

He agrees to their terms. Sarah’s smile looks genuine. 

* * *

_He who desires but acts not, breeds pestilence._

He’s taken to running in the evenings, these days. It feels more normal to be jogging when other people are about, instead of in the bleak night hours. And he rarely has the urge now to run off his insomnia. Rarely has insomnia, in fact. Another one up to his erstwhile therapist. 

But tonight running hasn’t driven the day from his head. Hasn’t burnt off his restlessness. He thinks about calling Jimmy for a pint, but that won’t scratch this itch. Even two generous slugs of Zubrowka and an hour of Sam Tyler’s madness can’t settle him. It’s like a fever in his veins.

It makes him want to fuck, or fight. 

He thinks about how the last person to willingly touch him was the doctor who stitched his bullet wound up.

He thinks about pubs, about clubs, about the layers of deceit needed for all these things. 

Wants something to be easy, just for once.

Halfway down his third drink, he picks up his phone. 

~

He’s good at reading people, he knows this, but he’s always been a bit slow, a bit uncertain, when it comes to reading attraction. He’s never entirely sure when somebody is flirting with him.

It’s only when he sees her at the riverside that he knows.

“I’ve never seen London look so pretty,” Sarah says. She’s quieter, softer, in this night cool air. 

He knows what he’s doing, and he’s pretty sure she does too. They’re adults, after all. 

She’s as far from Vieta as can be, which helps. 

She’s even further from Oleg, murmurs that voice in the shadows of his mind. 

She smells good too, bright and classy. He really wants a fuck. And so what if it’s another not-quite-right person in his bed. He’s had his share of those. And oh Christ, he’s missed it.

He leans in. Kisses her. 

Life is short. He’s had enough solitude. 

* * *

Separate cabs, fake names, a posh hotel; it’s like some teenage fantasy of secret assignations. He doesn’t care, though, right now. He’s feeling reckless, feeling like real life can just fuck off for a while.

In the hotel room, she’s already cracked open the mini-bar. He raises his eyebrows as she tilts her glass towards him in invitation. 

“Do the american taxpayers know they’re buying our overpriced drinks?” he asks, before he can stop himself. He’s really got to stop being so sarcastic with her, but he can’t help himself.

“Necessary _liaising_ expenses,” she says, with a glittering smile. “What can I get you?”

He feels like riding the recklessness, and drinking like tomorrow doesn’t matter.

And also, some instinct, some sense of not wanting to give _anything_ away to her, even his preferred drink, makes him say “Whisky and soda, if it’s there?”

“ _Everything’s_ here,” she says, a smile in her voice, and he guesses that’s what hotels like this do. 

He shrugs his jacket off, takes the glass from her, their fingers just touching. Christ, it’s good whisky. He should sip it, but he’s too wired for that. 

He leans into her again, slides a hand around the silky curve of her waist. It’s so good to feel the warmth under his palm. 

He kisses her again, feels the low curl of fire in his belly, the twitch of his cock, the thrum of his pulse, and suddenly it’s fierce and fast and almost frantic. Sarah breaks the kiss eventually, pushing him just far enough away that for a moment he falters, until he sees her deftly unbuttoning her blouse, and gets right with the program, pulling his shirt over his head, grinning, his blood singing. 

~

_The nakedness of woman is the work of God_

“Tell me what you like,” he says, breath hot against her cunt, lifting his eyes to her face.

“Oh, I will,” she says, flashing a smile, “I like a man who can take direction.”

Lucas dips his head, and does his best to please.

~

Christ he’s missed this feeling, oh fucking christ how he’s missed it. The sweat-slick slide of bodies, the heat and weight of another person, the _fun_ of it. Sarah’s much less serious than he’d expected, much less contained and polished. And holy fuck, the _feel_ of being in her. Lucas has resorted to picturing Harry’s top ten worst frowns, in an attempt not to come too quickly. 

He can’t hold out forever. It builds and builds, rolling through him, wildfire in his blood, and then he’s tipping over, over, over, into blissful bright white emptiness. 

~

Sarah - with a grin that’s almost schoolgirlish in its glee - takes herself off to have a bath. Lucas can only imagine what sinful wonders lie beyond the ensuite door. He lies in the quiet of the room, listening to the soothing sounds of water lapping. The bed is ridiculously soft. He contemplates getting another drink, but he’s too comfortable to move. 

_Why the fuck_ he thinks, _has it taken me so long to do this._ He feels content down to his bones, worn out in a well-used way. _This would have been a great cure for insomnia._ He doesn’t think his shrink would ever have suggested it though. 

He smiles to himself, rolls lazily over onto his front, and burrows into the marshmallow pillows. A man could get used to this kind of life. 

* * *

He startles awake, heart hammering, sweating. For a moment the sensation beneath his fingers is still the cold, rough wall of his cell, not the 300 thread count egyptian cotton sheets. 

He stumbles to the bathroom without putting a light on, leans over the sink, heaving in great gulps of air and waiting for his blood to quieten. Splashes cold water on his face, the back of his neck. Slumps down onto the floor, head hanging between his knees.

> The solid, inescapable bulk of Oleg pressed against his back, caging him, hot and close; the raw stinging pain of bones scraping against the brick; the thick electric tang of anger in the air.
> 
> His hair pulled tight in Oleg’s fist, his head tilted too far back, pain radiating down his trapped arms. 
> 
> Oleg’s voice, low and dangerous at his ear, scant inches from Lucas’ vulnerable pulse.
> 
> _“Tell me, Lucas.”_
> 
> His lungs cramping for air as Oleg leans in harder, shoves his rough-clad thigh between Lucas’ bare ones, sparking points of pain, of electricity over his skin.
> 
> _“Tell me. Who?”_
> 
> Skin burning, the thick taste of blood on his lips, copper-penny bright in the cold air. 
> 
> _“Tell me, Lucas. You need to tell me. Who?”_
> 
> A thin breath in, lights starting to dance in his vision, and Lucas shivers at the sensation of falling that is welling up in him. He can’t fight. Oleg radiates power, overwhelming him.
> 
> Finally, as the blackness starts to encroach, he whispers, 
> 
> “ _You_.”
> 
> “ _Again_ ,” Oleg growls, pulling tighter on Lucas’ hair, spiderwebbing pain across his scalp.
> 
> “ _You,_ ” Lucas shudders out on a high breath, muscles starting to spasm.
> 
> _“Once more.”_
> 
> “ _Please_ ... _please_ , _Oleg_ ,” as Oleg presses a hand around his throat. “ _Y_ _ou. It’s you. It’s always you.”_
> 
> A knife-edge silence, tense as the fingers in his hair.
> 
> And then _“good boy,”_ Oleg breathes, dark and thick, and drops a rough hand to Lucas’ cock just as he’s coming, vision whiting out, lungs screaming for air. 

Lucas rubs a still shaking hand across the back of his neck, and thinks, _Christ, I am so extremely fucked._

Here he is, in one of the poshest hotels in the world, with a willing woman in bed, and he’s sitting on the cold bathroom tile in the grey early light, half hard from a fucked up dream that’s got him more worked up than the previous night’s sex had.

His subconscious is a real bastard sometimes. 

~

Silently, in the dimness of the hotel room, he gets dressed as quickly as he can. His heart still feels too loud, his breathing too harsh, but he can’t stay any longer and risk Sarah waking up and wanting to know what’s wrong.

One thing about posh hotels - they make it easy to do the early morning walk of shame. He leaves a note on the pillow on the hotel notepaper that says _Duty Calls. Didn’t want to wake you. L_ He rides down in the whisper quiet lift, walks along the deeply carpeted hallway, and out past the studiously professional night receptionist.

It’s cold out, after the expensively insulated world of the hotel. He recognises the feel of the city from his insomnia running, the sounds of the workers who get up or come home at 5am. 

The tube is too-bright, isolated people huddled into themselves, cocooned in the last vestiges of sleep. He gets out at Pimlico so he can walk across the river. He needs to walk his dreams off. 

He stops halfway across the bridge to look westwards, towards the touchstone of Battersea Power Station, its chimneys ghostly in the morning dark. 

When he thinks of London, of landmarks and memories, it’s Battersea more than anything else that makes his heart leap up. 

He thinks he can deal with anything, while it stands, while he can look out across the river and see it.

He stands, and breathes, and listens to the river. And after a while, it settles into his bones. 

And he’s ready for another day.

* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> [jennytheshipper](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennytheshipper/pseuds/Jennytheshipper) cast her beady eyes over this as usual, and supported me through all my _'but do I HAVE to write a sex scene between Lucas and Sarah'_ wailing. 
> 
> I did zero research about the after effects of torture/imprisonment, which was super lazy, so if they are wildly wrong, blame me not Doctor Williams.
> 
> For your listening delectation: the one and only song soundtracking this fic and Lucas' brainpan is the kickass ["I Can't Stop Thinking About It"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oAqr7uwI3Tw) by the incomparable Dirtbombs. Go make your ears happy.


End file.
